


Faustian by Nature

by hktk



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Priests, Emotionally Repressed, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 14:59:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19402684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hktk/pseuds/hktk
Summary: It had been his mother's idea to be a priest. Although he thought it to be a piss poor excuse to just get rid of him, Crowley finds himself in a confessional, as a priest, just like his mother had wanted."Father Crowley, there is only misery in your life down the road, and—" says the man on the other side of the screen.





	Faustian by Nature

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on a roll..........
> 
> Not sure how many chapters this will be, but I hope to update it again soon! I swear I'll update it. 
> 
> Comments/hits/kudos always appreciated!

It had been his mother’s idea to become a priest.

(Back when he was eleven, she had first proposed the idea. ‘You’ll look great in the outfit! You’ll have lots of fun helping people! You’ll do the Lord’s work while learning so much about yourself!’ and so forth. He had a few years of freedom before she shipped him off to a seminary at the age of sixteen.)

He found it to be a poor excuse to get rid of him. After all, she never kept in contact, and she always refused to bring him home for Christmas. No matter what he did, she simply didn’t want to have anything to do with him. Rather than throwing himself into his studies like some of the other students did when this happened to them, he slacked off. He drank. He smoked. He partied.

All in private, of course.

In other words, he was tempted from the beginning, a product of negligence, a product of feeling unwanted, a product of loneliness.

These sorts of habits — the slacking off, the drinking, the smoking — followed him into his adulthood, into his actual priesthood. The partying stopped, if only because of that one time he was caught.

(When he was nineteen. He claims that it hadn’t been his idea, but he was far too drunk to argue with the priest to have found him, and he all but ended up confessing to the headmaster the next day that it had been him and him alone. He wasn’t a snitch. He still isn’t a snitch [unless it’s convenient for him entirely]. Regardless, he didn’t partake in many parties after that. The Fathers were stricter, much more vigilant, anyway. He watched his old friends just get their asses whooped instead.)

And it’s because of those habits that he’s simultaneously one of the most liked and the most unliked priests at the seminary he had spent the last ten or so years in. Perhaps more. Honestly, he had stopped counting after the ninth, so it’s entirely possible that it’s even more. Who knows?

He’s adored by the students. He jokes around with them, lets _them_ slack off just as much as he does. His lessons are haphazardly thrown together, and he’s extremely lenient with grading. He’s the History of Theology teacher, and he comes in barely sober enough to do anything but give out papers and have the students work on their own.

However, as expected, the other priests absolutely loathe him. His carefree attitude has many people question the Headmaster’s choice in keeping him on the faculty. Then again, not many people talk to the Headmaster — not many people have _seen_ the Headmaster, but no one goes against Their word. It’s absolute here in St. Raphael’s Seminary for Gifted Students.

Today, he’s slacking off, as per usual. Class had ended about twelve minutes ago, but he leans against the wall behind his desk, chair tilted back, arms crossed over his chest. His glasses are carelessly placed on his face, nearly falling off.

(Most people aren’t even sure why he wears sunglasses inside. He claims that they’re prescription and that he needs them, but why doesn’t he just use regular glasses? Most of the students think he’s cool, though, so perhaps that’s why.)

Another priest peeks into the room, the door left wide open by the exiting of the students when the bell tolled. Somehow, the man hadn’t woken up by that, and it was a very large bell. The priest looks around before entering the classroom, going through a few papers on the man’s desk. Not seeing anything particularly interesting, he...

He picks up the heaviest book he can, and he slams it down onto the stack of papers he had just created. A heavy _thonk_ sound results in it, and the man awakens, at last, from his deep slumber, falling backwards as his chair tilts just a little too far back. The other priest sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Father Crowley, you’re late,” says the priest.

The priest named Crowley picks himself up off the floor, searching for his sunglasses before putting them back on his face. He sighs in relief that they’re unbroken, and kneeling on the floor, he looks up at the other priest.

“Ah, Gabriel.”

“It’s _Father_ Gabriel. I don’t know how many times I’ve got to say that,” Gabriel counters, reaching down for Crowley and clutching onto the back of Crowley’s cassock. He pulls, tugs rather hard, and Crowley’s suddenly standing, head swirling, taking a few steps here and there as he steadies himself against the desk. Once he’s done so, he swats Gabriel off, leaning down onto the desk on his elbow, chin propped up by his hand. He sways in the air.

“Yep, yep, Father Gabriel. That’s what I said. Anyway,” he presses on before Gabriel can protest, “what is it exactly that... I’m late for again? I know, but I’m just checking in with you, just in case.”

(Gabriel is the only one that’s spoken with the Headmaster. He’s sort of like the Headmaster’s messenger. Not even Michael has spoken with Them. However, speaking with the Headmaster directly has given him too much power, which has consequently gone to his head far too quickly. He rather loathes Crowley and all that he stands for, and is one of the priests leading the crusades, if you will, against Crowley.)

Gabriel pinches the bridge of his nose again. “For... For confessional duty.”

“Ah, that’s right!” Crowley exclaims, though it’s not an exclamation of ‘I really did forget and now I’m finally remembering’ but one that’s more like ‘I knew all along, and you passed the impromptu test I’d just given you’ (though it really should be more along the lines of the former). “I just wanted to make sure you were on your toes, of course. It’s lunchtime now, right? Scurry along like you always do and eat well.”

Crowley pats Gabriel on the arm.

“After all, gotta keep those muscles pretty thick, eh?”

Gabriel frowns at him, and just when he opens his mouth to say something, Crowley throws all of his things in his bag and runs off in record speed. Gabriel is left in the classroom, alone. He picks up the chair that Crowley had overturned and fixes the desk up a little, if only because the messiness was annoying him.

By the time Crowley arrives at the Cathedral, lunchtime is over. He even walked rather briskly, so he’s a little disappointed in himself. Still, he’s sure that people will just be lining up to talk to him once he’s in there, too scared to move from the pews or even too scared to enter the cathedral at all before they know that it’s anonymous.

(But it’s not really anonymous, and everyone’s aware of that. Crowley knows everyone’s voice, everyone’s tone, everyone’s inflection. He’s put on confessional duty quite often, as well, so it’s like he knows everyone’s sins, too.)

When he enters the cathedral, however, only one person is present. A fellow sits in a pew, near the altar, with his back turned to Crowley. Golden-white locks of short hair curl around his ears, and for a second, Crowley sees a halo. He rubs at his eyes, and all returns to normal. He must still be waking up from his dream.

Crowley simply clears his throat and enters his side of the confessional, pulling the door closed. He sighs, already feeling claustrophobic. He never quite gets used to just how cramped it is in here.

And he waits.

He waits, and he waits, and not a single soul comes to confess. Perhaps it’s better that way (less work for him to do), but Crowley rather enjoyed hearing everything that everyone is guilty of. It’s part of the reason why he didn’t mind being put on such a duty as often as he was.

He’s just about to nod off once and for all when he hears the other door open, someone settle in next to him, and the door shut. Crowley slides the divider open so that the other person knows that he’s able to initiate the confession.

“Forgive me, Father,” says the most unfamiliar yet most charming voice Crowley has ever heard; it’s soft and warm, full of... full of love and adoration, full of genuine guilt that many people Crowley has heard confess so often lack, “for I have sinned.”

Crowley, for some reason, swallows. The man continues on on the other side.

“I accuse myself of the following sin: Lying.”

Oh, a simple one. Crowley prepares to hear what awful lie this warm man has committed.

“Father Gabriel, bless his heart, had recently gotten a new hat.” Crowley recalls the dreadful little thing that Gabriel really had gotten, so he leans in closer. “He asked me whether it looked good on him, and I could not bring myself to tell him that it looked very awful, so I told him: ‘Yes, Father Gabriel, it is the most wonderful thing on you! It really brings out your eyes!’”

Crowley is silent. He’s been silent this entire time so far, but now he’s _really_ silent. Even he can’t hear his heart beating.

“That’s, that’s hardly...” begins Crowley, choosing his words carefully. “... hardly a sin. It’s just a little white lie, that everyone tells. After all, if we went around telling the truth all the time, things would be just a little bit touchier all the time.”

The man on the other side clears his throat. “W-Well... I do suppose you’re right. Ah, how about this one? I’m not used to the hours here yet, see, and so I slept right past my usual time — and I missed morning prayer today. I’ve already prayed for forgiveness for that one, but...”

Crowley is flabbergasted at this man’s lack of conceivable sins. “No... No, that’s hardly a sin, too. Don’t you have anything more... exciting?”

“Exciting?” The man’s tone is exquisitely quizzical. “What do you mean?”

“No drinking, no cheating, no doubts of the church?”

“Heavens no!”

“Then what are you in here for?” Crowley can’t help but say immediately right back. “You seem like you haven’t committed a single sin!”

There’s a pause, and the man on the other side clears his throat. “Well... There is one thing that I want to say to you, personally.”

“... What? Personally?”

“Father Crowley, there is only misery in your life down the road, and—”

“No, nope, nah, stop right there. This isn’t how this works.” Crowley adjusts his glasses, opening up the door and sliding out of the confessional. The other door opens up soon enough, and the man with the golden-white curls stumbles out after Crowley.

“Father Crowley, if you’d please listen—”

“Sorry, confession time’s over. I’ve got other things to do now, like sleep..” Crowley turns to him, giving him a once over. The man truly looks worried, brows knitting together and frown crinkling his skin. He takes a step towards Crowley, who takes a step back. It’s at that point that Crowley realizes he’s never seen this man, who’s wearing a cassock the same as Crowley’s, before in all of his life.

“... You new ‘round here?”

The man nods, fiddling with his hands in front of him. He glances away before returning his gaze to Crowley’s. “That’s correct. I’ve just transferred in.”

“Lord knows why anyone would transfer here. Enjoy your stay, I guess.”

The man in front of Crowley grimaces, shaking his head. “The Lord does know. It’s part of an ineffable plan.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Crowley’s turned around by now, waving a hand over his shoulder. “Ineffable. Right.”

“Father Crowley, have you lost your faith?”

This makes Crowley pause. He shakes his head now. “Nah.”

(He’s always had very little faith in the first place. After all, what kind of God would just give them free will and let everyone trample on others? People grow up poor and starving—if they even grow up at all and don’t die before the age of sixteen—and Crowley thinks that if there is a God, He’s doing a piss poor job at it.)

“Then you should know—”

“Listen,” Crowley says, voice sharp. He doesn’t turn back around. “I don’t care about the ineffable plan. If you ask me, humans will destroy one another before the ineffable plan even takes place. So bugger off, and leave me alone.”

After speaking, someone at the other end of the cathedral clears their throat. Crowley inwardly sighs. He just wants to go back to his room already and crash for the rest of the day until vespers, where he’s required to get up or else. Both of the men look over to their right to see a womanly figure wearing a cassock, which might be a strange sight to those that don’t normally come to St. Raphael’s.

“Michael,” breathes Crowley through gritted teeth.

“Father Michael,” says the man in relief.

(Michael is neither a man nor a woman. She uses feminine pronouns whilst using masculine terms, and we all know that doing that cancels the other out. Although she sometimes relishes in doing traditionally feminine activities, such as keeping her nails perfect or liking the color pink, she is also the hardest priest in the entire seminary, so no one really decides to go against her—essentially, she destroys the idea that androgyny only has one look.)

Michael takes harsh steps down the aisle, away from the altar and towards the pair. “Crowley, have you been causing trouble again?”

“Oh, no, no, not at all, Michael,” he says, with a little bit of sarcasm in his tone. “In fact, he’s the one that started saying complete and utter bull—”

“Language, Crowley!” barks Michael. Crowley glances at the man to his right, who seems to have looked down and away at the prospective swear word, his cheeks lightly tinted pink. “Regardless, do be nice to our new recruit. After all, you were once new.”

(As mentioned before, Crowley grew up here. He was never ‘new’ as this new man is, but he hasn’t the strength to really open his fat mouth and say that. He’s just far too tired. And hungry. Mostly hungry. Now he’s thinking of what’s for dinner.)

“Ah, I haven’t introduced myself,” the man says, turning to Crowley after a moment’s hesitation and sticking out his hand, as if for a handshake. His smile is gentle and pure, and Crowley finds that he loathes it. “My name is A. Ziraphale. I take great pleasure in meeting you, Father Crowley.”

Crowley only has one thing on his mind. “What’s the ‘A.’ stand for?”

The man fumbles over his words. “It-It’s, um, it’s... Anthony.”

That’s strange. Crowley furrows his brows. “Really? What a coincidence. My name’s also Anthony.”

Ziraphale’s face lights up like a Christmas tree in the middle of the square. “Oh! Haha! Fancy that. Right, it’s a common name.”

“Like two peas in a pod, you both are,” interjects Michael. Her comment may have supposed to have been a hilarious joke, but her face, set in stone, betrays her. It hasn’t budged an inch. “Speaking of which, Father Ziraphale’s room will be undergoing renovations. It suddenly started leaking something fierce last night, and mold is apparently growing in the mattress, so he will be staying with _you,_ Crowley.”

Crowley’s face immediately does a 180. He shakes his head, eyes slightly wide, and he stands up straighter, as if he were an animal trying to make himself appear larger, more threatening. “No, no. There’s no way that’s going to fly.”

“I’m afraid it’s already soaring, Father Crowley,” says Michael. “It’s a good thing I caught you both here at the same time. Do show Father Ziraphale back to _your_ room. Plural.”

Crowley throws his hands up in the air, sighing in the most dramatic way possible. Ziraphale looks sheepish as he moves slightly closer, leaning so that Crowley can see him perfectly.

“I... I do apologize if I’ve inconvenienced you in even the slightest way, but I’m afraid there’s nowhere else to stay.”

“Why me?” snaps Crowley, lowering his arms. “Why not you, or Gabriel?”

Michael shakes her head. “Both Father Gabriel and I are already sharing a room, so no more questions.”

“If it’s too much trouble,” Ziraphale tries after a moment, looking rather anxious to even be suggesting whatever it is he’s about to suggest, “I can just sleep in my room around the renovations. I’m sure a little mold never killed anyone.”

“Out of the question. Crowley here will just have to suck it up.”

Ziraphale nods. “Very well...”

“‘Very well’ my ar—”

“Crowley!” Michael barks again. “Language!” She fixes her hair after the small outburst, frowning heavily at the mocking face of Crowley. “Perhaps Father Ziraphale can teach you some manners while he stays with you.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Fine, whatever. Get the renovations done as quick as possible, so that he can be _out_ as soon as they’re done.”

Ziraphale’s face falls slightly, but he nods. “Please do so, Father Michael. It seems he’s really rather displeased.”

Michael purses her lips but says nothing more, pushing past the pair and out of the cathedral. Once she’s gone, Crowley flips her off. With both hands. Ziraphale gasps, lunging forward to grasp both of Crowley’s hands.

“Please! Not in the house of the Lord!”

“I can do it outside if you’d like.”

“I’d rather you not do it, not do it at all! Please!” Ziraphale seems frantic, anxious again even. He keeps his hands firmly wrapped around Crowley’s, then he seems to realize what he’s doing, and he clears his throat, letting go of Crowley and straightening himself. He smooths down Crowley’s cassock, giving a shy smile. Crowley swears he sees a halo again.

Crowley swats his hand, and any hallucination of a halo, away with one of his own hands. Ziraphale’s face falls again.

“... Follow me,” Crowley says, and without waiting for the other man, exits the cathedral. He doesn’t even hold the door open for him.

(The cathedral is a standalone building in the middle of the seminary, which surrounds the cathedral on all sides. It goes like this, as if in a big, square-ish circle: Cathedral in the center, then a courtyard, some outdoor corridors shielded from the weather by a roof, then the actual building of the seminary. The cathedral has quite a tall tower, where a bell sits and is rung every hour on the hour, except after eleven at night and not before five in the morning.)

Ziraphale follows him at a brisk pace. Crowley kicks up some of the grass of the courtyard, not walking on the preferred, cemented path at all (which Ziraphale strictly sticks to).

“This is un-fucking-believable,” Crowley says, not noticing the wince from the other at the forbidden word. “What are we even supposed to do? Share a bed?”

Ziraphale catches up to him in one of the outdoor corridors, walking beside him but also a little behind him. He seems out of breath. “I believe she mentioned a cot to me earlier, when I first brought the issue up to her.”

“A cot? Well, you can have that. I’m not giving up my bed.”

“... Yes, that’s fine,” Ziraphale says quietly. “I... wasn’t expecting you to give it up, anyway.”

Crowley heads forward, entering one of the many doors along the walls of the outdoor corridors. Ziraphale quietly follows. It’s getting later, so many of the students are at various activities or extra classes, none of which Crowley teaches, so he’s always free in the late afternoons and evenings.

(Unless, of course, someone has requested he tutor them. For some reason, the students, especially that Adam Young, always request him for tutoring. He’s not very good at it, and he has half a mind to think Adam is simply making fun of him, but he has to put up with the blasted brat either way.)

Soon enough, the pair reaches Crowley’s room. He opens the door to a dark, small-ish room. A bed sits in the corner to the left and farthest away from the door, and a nightstand sits next to it. A desk sits opposite of it, and a coat rack stands next to the door, tall and proud. A wardrobe and dresser sit side by side on the same wall as the door.

(Other than that, there’s hardly anything in the room. A plant, perhaps, on one of the corners of the desk, looking like it has seen better days.)

Crowley walks into the room, nearly tripping over the cot folded up next to the bed. He hadn’t seen it, not one bit. Ziraphale rushes forward, as if he were prepared to catch him, but Crowley steadies himself, then kicks the cot.

Ziraphale purses his lips, disappointed. “... I do know that you’re... angry, perhaps, at the situation, but you’re only going to hurt yourself if you continue on like this.”

Crowley walks around the cot, dropping down onto the bed. He positions himself so that his chin rests in his hands, and his elbows rest on his knees. He looks up at Ziraphale, disbelieving.

“Yeah. Will I? You said something like, ‘blah blah’ misery or something, didn’t you? What are you, psychic? Fake? Can a priest even be psychic? Isn’t that, like, illegal?”

Ziraphale shakes his head. “No. I know not what the Lord has in store for you specifically. However, I _can_ tell you that, in His ineffable plan, it will most likely be misery, unless—”

Crowley falls back onto the bed, kicks his shoes off, sets his sunglasses on the nightstand, and curls up underneath the covers. “Bored of that kinda talk. I’m going to bed now. Wake me up for dinner, will you?”

Ziraphale doesn’t say anything further for what seems like a very long time. “... Very well, Father Crowley.”

Crowley hears the opening of a door and the close of a door, and he feels the loneliness in his bones settle down again. Ziraphale’s crestfallen face is still highlighted, burned into his eyelids, every time he closes his eyes.

(That man was like an angel, Crowley thinks. In every way. Pure, kind-spirited, and so forth. He even had the looks of a stereotypical angel. Which Crowley can’t stop thinking of. Ethereal, almost.)

Crowley pulls the covers over his head, then smashes the pillow down onto his ear. He keeps his back to the door, curling up even tighter.

And he doesn’t sleep a wink. He lies there with his eyes half closed. It’s cold tonight, so he can’t sleep. After awhile, he hears the sound of a door open again. He doesn’t move. He wants to sleep for just awhile longer, just to see if he can.

A gentle hand places itself on his shoulder.

“Father Crowley,” says Ziraphale, “it is time for you to wake.”

His tone, for some reason, is somber, and his hand lingers. Crowley looks up, and he really does see a halo.

The room is dark, and damp, and there’s all sorts of those flying bits around like when you’re trying to adjust to the dark. He swallows, though, for it’s far, far too quiet, and Crowley rather likes the noise that normally comes with being at a seminary with teenagers.

He realizes, suddenly, that the priest hovering over him has no face.

And he wakes, sitting up quickly in bed, holding his face in both of his hands.


End file.
